


not a creature was stirring

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Series: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar [8]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs, into Rose’s hair.</p><p>“’S not Christmas yet,” she replies softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a creature was stirring

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked “Tentoo and Rose's first Christmas in Pete's World.”
> 
> Fill #8 for my [2013 fic advent calendar](http://lyricalprose.tumblr.com/tagged/2013-fic-advent-calendar).

Rose wakes up in a cold sweat, with her face pressed into the Doctor’s back and her hands twisted in the bedsheets. As usual, it’s a few heart-stopping seconds before she can center herself and remember – _home, Doctor, Christmas Eve, safe._  
  
Just a nightmare.  
  
In the hazy fantasies she used to have, back when she and the Doctor traveled together on the TARDIS, Rose envisioned their sleeping arrangements quite differently. She’d imagined that he wouldn’t sleep much, and that when he did he’d be plagued by nightmares. He’d hinted as much, now and then. She’d painted indistinct pictures of herself comforting him – soothing him when he woke up sweating, maybe. Smoothing his hair back and running her hands up and down his arms, pressing her forehead to his and whispering all the comforting words she could think of (except, of course, the three most terrifying ones).  
  
In reality, it’s nothing like that. The Doctor sleeps like the dead, though he’d never admit it. Even now, a year later, he’s still not quite adjusted to the limitations of a (mostly) human body, and it’s evident in the way that he sleeps, sprawled out over their bed in a heap of limp, exhausted limbs.  
  
And it’s her who has the nightmares, most of the time.

Sometimes it’s run-of-the-mill stuff, old nightmares that she’s been having for years, that she’s learned to deal with and shrug off for the most part. Rose can roll over and go back to sleep, after those; they’re irritating, but they don’t hover over her afterwards, keeping her heart clenched with dread and her mind whirring with panic.  
  
(That she’s to the point where the Wire and the Beast and the harsh electronic tones of Daleks shouting are all _run-of-the-mill_ probably isn’t a _good_ thing, but Rose will take what she can get).  
  
But sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes, it’s one of the hundred and one terrible possibilities she’d happened across, while using the Dimension Cannon, one of the timelines that ended with blood on her hands and screams ringing in her ears. Sometimes it’s the Doctor’s face as he screams her name in the lever room, begging her to _just hold on_ while her fingers slip and the Void roars behind her. Sometimes it’s Donna, dying in the middle of a Chiswick street.  
  
Sometimes Rose just can’t get back to sleep, no matter how warm the bed is, or how sure she is that it’s all just been a dream, or how comforting the Doctor’s presence beside her is.  
  
Tonight it was the Doctor’s body on a gurney in the UNIT morgue.  
  
Before she gets out of bed, Rose takes a moment to trail her fingers across the Doctor’s chest, to reassure herself that his single heart is, in fact, still beating. He’s rolled over to lie on his back, arms and legs fanned out in the wholly undignified sprawl of deep sleep, and even through the lingering dread of the nightmare the sight brings a smile to her face.  
  
In search of a cuppa, Rose pads out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. From there she can see that, out in the living room, the Christmas tree is still lit. Clearly, the Doctor’s forgotten to unplug the lights before going to bed again. They’d both turned in early, worn out by the day of celebrations with Mum and Pete and Tony, and frankly a bit exhausted by the prospect of more such celebrating coming the next day.  
  
She takes her cup of tea out into the living room and settles herself on the floor, in front of the tree. It was one of her favorite things to do, as a girl – sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree, looking up at the lights and counting down the days till there’d be presents underneath.  
  
She’s only been there for a minute or so when arms slide around her from behind. The Doctor’s legs come around to frame hers as well, and he pulls her backwards into an embrace, wrapping her up in a cradle of limbs.  
  
“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs, into Rose’s hair.  
  
“’S not Christmas yet,” she replies softly.  
  
“Less than two minutes to midnight,” the Doctor scoffs. “It’s practically here.”  
  
“Nope.” Rose shakes her head firmly. “It’s not Christmas til midnight.”  
  
There are a few moments of silence before the Doctor asks, “Nightmares again?”  
  
Rose nods. He doesn’t say _what about_ or _you should’ve woken me_ because those are rows they’ve had already, and they’re long since settled.  
  
Instead he presses a kiss to her shoulder and tightens his arms around her just a bit, and when the clock strikes midnight he says _I love you._


End file.
